Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (40 page)

We
drove up to my house but had to park at the curb, because the fire truck was in
my driveway.  Also, the firemen were blocking the entrance to my front door.

After
screaming at them that I had two pets who I did not want to be barbequed, I
dragged out my driver’s license and they let me through.

Billows
of smoke were coming out my front door.  Vito and Miriam sat on my front porch,
chit-chatting with a couple of firemen and shaking their heads.

“What
happened?” I screamed.

Vito
shrugged.  “All I wath doing wath trying to leave a thwank you.  So I braised a
brithket for yuth,” he said.  “Then I thought I’d make a tweat for Thanly,” he
added.

“A
treat?”

“I
was trying to thmoke pigs’ feet. Anyway, Mirwium thwings by, and we got to
talking, and next thing I knows the pan’s a widdle too hot.”

“There
was smoke!” Miriam said defensively.

“There’th
supposed to be smoke!” Vito yelled back.  “I was thmoking pigs’ feet!”

I
rubbed the back of my neck; as my headache creeped down my spine.

“You
were burning brisket! And the pigs’ feet! You’re supposed to smoke food outdoors!
With water! In a pot! ” Miriam cried.

“I
TOLD YOU! DO NOT BE AFWAID OF CARBONIZATION!”

I
interrupted, “Carbonization?” Vito nodded his head up and down.  I sighed.  “I
think you mean carmelization,” I said.  “Where’s Vinnie? And Marie?”

After
dealing with and apologizing to the firemen, and checking on Vinnie and Marie –
now housed in separate bedrooms upstairs in Vito’s townhouse, away from all the
smoke – and after borrowing a half dozen fans to blow the smoke out of my
house, it was a little after four in the afternoon and I was mad.  Vito knew
it.

“I
wath justh twying to thay thwank you,” he stammered.  “And I got dithtwacted.”

“Why
were you cooking in my house?” I asked simply.

Vito
shrugged.  “I gueff it’s kinda wike a habit now.  And bethides, you got real
good pots and dings.  I dunno know how to shop for that kinda thutff,” he said,
gingerly fingering his nasal injury.  I looked pointedly at the burnt out cast
iron pan, and the burnt out stockpot – the culprit – on top of my stove.  “Ah
guess ah should have athked you,” he said sheepishly.

“Look,
I’ll take you shopping soon and we’ll get you your very own set of good quality
pots and pans that you can burn out happily in your own kitchen,” I said.

“You
mean id? And spitheth?”

“Yes,”
I sighed, “and spices.”

CHAPTER 13

(Thursday into Friday)

Downstairs
was still
pretty
smokey, so we got Vinnie and Marie arranged upstairs.  Then Aunt Muriel called
to let me know she’d made dinner reservations at Conestoga Cabana for her, Ma
and me for seven o’clock.  It was five-thirty.  She asked me if I wanted to
come over and have a drink first, which I certainly did.  But after the way
today had gone, I was afraid I wouldn’t stop.  Plus, I was still without a
vehicle.  And I still needed to shower, dress and make another vain attempt at
cosmetics.  We then began the logistics negotiations.

That
was about when the migraine in my posterior voiced a loud and angry
salutation.  I kept nodding and uh-huhing into the phone at Auntie while I
walked over to the freezer and took out a bag of frozen peas and held it
against my butt.

Ten
minutes later, I was still reminding Auntie I was without a car.

Vito
waved at me.  “Yeth you do, Toods,” he whispered, dragging out a large, heavy
golden key chain from his pocket.  “You justh take my Towncawhr,” he said. 
“I’d dwive you over, if we weren’t airing oud your houthe.  Id’s the weast Ah
can dew.”

I
motioned for him to throw me the keys.  I dropped the peas, caught the keys,
and told Aunt Muriel I’d meet her and Ma at the restaurant.

By
now the clock said it was a quarter to pretty late.  I got Vinnie’s food ready
and carried it upstairs.  He was ensconced across my bed, one paw hooked over
his nose, enjoying the most of it.  Really.  He took up the whole bed.  Beside
him was a Recipes Quick! magazine I’d left on my night table.  Apparently he’d
dragged it onto the bed for perusal.  I shrugged.  Maybe someday he’d show me a
5-minute
feed-and-clean-the-pets-and-shower-and-dress-and-get-your-ass-out-the-door-in-time-for-work
recipe.

Vinnie
woke up, stretched longer and yawned.    I put his dinner down in front of him
– Chicken Toes-es with Fishie Noses – then left and closed the door to repeat
the parallel process with Marie across the hall.

I
went back into my room, looked in my closet and saw a bundle of fresh dry
cleaning waving at me.  Sorting through the plastic wraps, I found a favorite
silk shirt set that I’d completely forgotten about.  Wow.  It was as good, if
not better, than getting a new outfit for free.  I remembered the Capri linen pants that went with it, which by some miracle were hanging up clean and not
bunched up in the dirty laundry.

I
lay everything out on my bed.  “Okay, Vinnie, no pre-fluffing my good duds,
right?” I asked.

“Aw-kay!”
Vinnie yipped in response and leapt on top of the bed to guard my clothes from
the ‘mysterious other cat’ who is usually responsible for shedding on them.

I
grabbed a quick shower, then threw back the curtain to find Vinnie sitting
vigil in his usual spot – just outside the tub – and immediately began chatting
me up with a diatribe of cautionary tales while I toweled off.  Did I know what
happens to humans who get deliberately wet; this was how pneumonia and disease
are spread; you wouldn’t catch him doing that sort of thing, etc.

I
threw on my clothes and some make-up and opted for my usual wet ponytail since
I’d run out of blow-drying time.         I gave a goodbye pat to Vinnie, poked
my head into Marie’s room so she could hiss me farewell, and clopped
downstairs.

Vito
looked up.  “Wow, Twoots, you wook gweat!” he shouted above the fans.  I rubbed
at the nerve that was starting to twinge again deep inside my right buttock. 
Vito winced, then handed me his keys.   I patted Stanley on the nose and headed
out the front door toward Vito’s driveway and his waiting Towncar.

Air
conditioning.  In a car.  Ahhh.  And silence!  I suddenly realized just how
noisy my household was these days.  I exhaled in relief, blasted the AC, and
changed the radio station from WPOP (Polkas of Polska) to an FM station I can’t
pick up in the Doo-doo.  Mostly since the Doo-doo only picks up AM.  Not that
she doesn’t have a normalish radio.  It’s just that she refuses to pick up FM. 
Unless it’s some kind of religious talk show, or Christian rock.

I
headed out Vito’s driveway and checked in the rearview and almost ran over top
of Mr. Perfect, aka Bruce, as he walked David past the driveway.  He waved back
good naturedly.  It figured.  Now that I was all dolled up, and know Bruce is
gay, of course I’d run into him when I wasn’t looking crummy.

I
stopped and pushed the button to unroll the driver side window.  The trunk
flipped open.  I tried again.  The gas cap opened.  I tried again.  The
windshield wipers washed.   I sighed.  I pressed the last of the Chinese
takeout buttons on the driver’s side door and the front passenger side window
rolled down.   Bruce loped over with David, shut the trunk, closed the gas cap,
then leaned in the opposite window at me and turned off the windshield wipers.

“Hi!”
he beamed.  “Wow, new car?” I shook my head, explained about the Doo-doo and
needing to borrow Vito’s car to meet Aunt Muriel and Ma at Conestoga Cabana. 
Bruce nodded enthusiastically.  “You’ll have a fabulous time!” he said.  “And
you’ll be able to check out the menu before the Conestoga Cabana Cup at polo
this Sunday!”

“Huh?”
I asked politely.

Bruce
explained that the restaurant sponsors a competition game each summer, and that
invitees only gain admittance to the private party via invitation.  Which was
only issued to regulars.  The feast is served while the guests pretend to watch
the polo match.  “It’s a lovely, lovely time,” Bruce advised.  “Your aunt is
such a regular at Conestoga Cabana; I’m sure she’s invited.  She must bring
you!” he declared.  Or I thought I heard him declare.  Well, I certainly didn’t
declare – I’m born well north of the Mason Dixon line.

But
I gulped and felt a little panicked.  “Umm… well, maybe I should skip it this
year, and try next year, after everyone’s forgotten about the Chukker Tent
getting set on fire,” I mumbled.

Bruce
waved me off.  “Oh, that’s nothing,” he said.  “You should have been there when
one of the patrons used a mini-propane grill to win the tailgate competition –
inside his trunk!”  David woofed in agreement.  “They were invited not to bring
a hot meal ever again!” Bruce added.  I gulped again.  “Look, I’m sure they
sent me an extra invitation so I’ll stop by to see if you need it – that is if
your aunt hasn’t already received hers,” he offered.

I
blushed.  Gay or not, Bruce is waaa-aaay cute.  And very nice.  But then again,
he is from Lancaster.

I
smiled, said thanks again, patted David on top of his giant head – which he was
hanging through the passenger side window, slobbering down Vito’s side panel. 
I made a mental note to feign complete ignorance about that when I returned the
car, and hoped Stanley wouldn’t bite too much.

I
waved bye-bye, then pulled out of my development and onto Millersville Pike,
and started my trek toward Conestoga Cabana.

After
I was well into Manheim Township, I made a left at the used car place that
housed the ‘Conestoga Cabana – This Way!’ billboard above it.  I followed the
arrowed signs that led to it, driving across the small wooden covered bridge
and up a long driveway.

Finally,
I entered through the iron gates that welcome visitors to Conestoga Cabana and
parked under one of the many trees in the parking lot.  Which was unusual,
since most establishments don’t asphalt around trees for their parking lots. 
But this one did.  It also sported over-sized paintings on the restaurant’s
exterior walls.  Done by the owner himself, or so I’d heard.  I always wondered
what made him trade a brush for a spatula?

The
digital temperature screen in Vito’s car told me that inside the car was a
wonderful sixty-eight degrees, which accounted for the goose pimples on my
arms.  Outside it was ninety-eight with 85-percent humidity.  I braced myself,
opened the door and stepped out.   Walking to the front door, I tripped on a
tree root and lost my shoe while tumbling into an exiting patron.  I put my
slightly damaged very best sandal (damn!) back on, and limped inside.

At
the Maitre’D’s desk, I was officially greeted by Gus, Armand’s manager.  “Good
eee-ven-innng,” Gus intoned.  I nodded.  It was best to spare as few words as
possible with Gus, especially where poor Armand’s work schedule was concerned. 
“Do you have a rez-errr-vaaaa-shun?” he creened.

He
had to be kidding.  Did I have reservations?  Where should I start?  I’m
worried about everything.  I wasn’t even sure I should be here.

Armand
appeared behind him. He didn’t walk out from behind a partition or curtain or
anything. I mean, he just appeared. Literally. He leaned over Gus from behind. 
Which was easy to do, considering Gus is vertically challenged.

“She
iz weeth Table 12,” Armand glowered.

Gus
shot a daggered look back up at Armand, then shifted as he realized I was still
in the audience.  As well as the party of eight lined up behind me.

Gus
looked back down at the reservation list.  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, yes of course, you
would be joining the Mrs. Muriel?” he said.  I looked at him blankly.  The Mrs.
Muriel?  Did he think I was boarding a ship?

Armand
answered for me.  “That izz correct,” he replied darkly.

I
tried to warm the frost-bitten air.  “Hey, Armand! Great to see you! Didn’t
realize you’d be working tonight!” I said.

“Yes,”
he replied darkly, looking directly at Gus.  “It is Thursday.”

Gus
winced.  Apparently Gus was living to regret putting the kibosh on Armand’s
weekend schedule status.  Then Gus glowered back at Armand.  He was nothing if
not punitive.

Gus
sniffed.  “If you will pleeeese follow your waaaaaaaai-ter.” And he gestured
toward Armand’s rapidly receding back.

I
caught up with Armand at the home stretch as he held out a chair for me at Aunt
Muriel’s and Ma’s table.  “Sorry I’m late,” I started to say, when Armand
muttered, “Motherless dog of thieves,” while seating me.  Aunt Muriel’s eyes
bulged; Ma immediately picked up the menu she had obviously studied ad nauseum
while waiting for me and re-read it with renewed gusto.

I
faked a smile that probably looked a little like I had gas.  “Aunt Muriel, Ma,
isn’t this nice?  My friend, Armand, is our waiter tonight,” I said.

“Oh,
my!” Aunt Muriel said. “I remember you and K. telling me so much about him! 
Very nice to meet you, Armand.” She relaxed and smiled.  Ma copied.  “My
goodness, I’ve been here so often this summer, I’m surprised we haven’t met
before,” Aunt Muriel offered.

Armand
glowered and turned a kind of plum color.  “You dine here on the weekends,
yes?” he growled.

“Well,
of course, yes…” Aunt Muriel began.

“It
is Thursday.”

After
Armand took my drink order, and some quick unplanned replenishment drink orders
from Auntie and Ma, I explained to them about the weekend mafia schedule.  They
nodded with understanding.  Armand came back with our cocktails – Aunt Muriel’s
usual Absolut, Ma’s Grey Goose, and my very nice Cosmo in a very, very nice
glass – patted me on the shoulder and left with our appetizer orders.

For
those of you wondering about how to make a very nice Cosmo for one, here goes:

COSMO
FOR 1 RECIPE HERE: starting with 1 very, very nice
glass (remember, presentation is
everything).

l
Vodka of
choice; 2 shots

l
Triple Sec; 1
shot

l
2 shots
cranberry cocktail juice

l
1 shot water

l
2 tsp FRESH
squeezed lime juice

l
couple drops
of angostura bitters

Mix
in a small pitcher with a lot of ice. Stir well (I’m not good at martini shaker
thingy… I mostly wind up with a Cosmo colored walls when I do this).  Strain
into a pretty looking martini glass. Top with an ice cube, and sip alongside a
decent vinyl of Coleman Hawkins.

We
heaved our glasses and sighs of relief, imbibed and exhaled.   We chatted about
Ethel and Ike and the soon-to-be junior.  Or junior miss.  Apparently it was
already decided between Ma and Mu that I would be the godmother and accordingly
would arrange the baby shower.  Soon.  Very, very soon.  I sipped my Cosmo
while visions of tubal ligations and vasectomies danced through my head.

Armand
returned without a growl.  In fact, he looked smiley.  For Armand.  He served
us our appetizer orders: artichoke and spinach spread with house baked bread
and a smoked fish sampler platter (smoked trout, salmon, roe caviar and
sturgeon).  Then he presented some unordered fare:  seared sea scallop and
artichoke kabobs, eggplant and olive tapenade with a bonafide San Franciscan
sourdough baguette, and twelve raw oysters on the half-shell, which he placed
in front of Ma.

“I
have remembered Mina has said the Mamma likes these especially,” he said, his
lips curling.  Which almost resembled a smile.  Sort of.  I was impressed. And
scared.  I hadn’t seen Armand in this good a mood since the local news divulged
Conestoga Cabana’s chief competitor achieved their tender melt-in-your-mouth
prime ribs by salting them overnight in lots of MSG.  I squinted up at him. 
Armand shrugged.  “Apparently someone was not timely when picking up his
orders.  Your Aunt is one of our very best patrons, so of course I signed that
it is the compliments of our manager,” he said, sneering deliberately toward
Gus.